Drawers

I just got my truck back from the shop yesterday. Back when I bought the suspension upgrade and the snorkel, I also ordered a set of drawers for the back. The guy at the 4WD shop was booked up and couldn't get the drawers installed with the other stuff, so I wasn't able to get them in until this week. Here's what they looked like this afternoon, before I put a bunch of stuff in them:

fridge slide

table

Getting the car back is a story in-and-of itself. The names have been deliberately changed or omitted, since I didn't obtain permission from my sources, but the story is all true.

I'd gone out the night before with a bunch of people from work. Friday was our HR manager's last day with the company, so we had a bit of a going-away party at the office before moving the party to his favorite bar, a place on Swanston Street called Cookie.

When we got there, the place was completely packed, and there was no way we could possibly get a table big enough for our entire group. So we headed another level upstairs to their sister establishment, The Toff in Town. The whole affair lasted well into the night, and turned into a big dance party later on as more and more people came in.

When I awoke yesterday morning, I was a bit puzzled at seeing how much wear I had on the edges of my jacket, which I'd hung on a chair the night before. The puzzlement quickly turned to confusion followed by embarrassment when I realized that it was, in fact, not my jacket. (author's note: it's remarkably similar to mine, and of the same color, so it would have been easy to confuse the two in a dark room after countless rounds of drinks).

I decided to leave the jacket issue for the moment and focus on picking up my car from the shop. The guy doesn't normally work on Saturdays, but he'd called me Friday afternoon and said he would be in on Saturday and asked if I could be down around midday to pick up my vehicle. So about 11:00 or so, I headed out to pick up the car.

I hopped on a tram near my apartment and rode it into the city, stopping at Southern Cross Station for breakfast at Hungry Jack's (which Americans know as Burger King), a couple value menu items and a large coffee, and boarded a train headed towards Frankston.

The train ride was pretty uneventful. I finished my breakfast and dozed a little while, until I finally got off at Moorabbin. I called the shop, but couldn't get an answer. I called again... still no answer. I waited another 10 or 15 minutes, called again, still no answer. I figured something had come up and the guy wasn't in today, or maybe he'd only worked in the morning and gone home, so I decided to do the same. The city-bound train was late coming in, and the platform was filling up with people going to the day's AFL match (where the Hawthorn Hawks stomped the St. Kilda Saints to the record-breaking tune of 175-to-30). The final straw was when a woman walked down onto the platform, with scratches and bruises on her face. I fought back tears as I walked out of the station and hailed a taxi to take me home.

The taxi driver was a rather nice fellow, who spoke with an Australian accent (a rarity in this city). We had a nice chat, and he took me through Albert Park because we both wanted to see some nice scenery (which included not only the lake but also the women running the path alongside it). I commented on how unusual it was for a taxi to have radio dispatch these days, since most of the dispatching is now done through the meter/GPS. He explained that his taxi was part of a special group that does premium services, basically one step removed from chauffeurs. They have nicer cars, stricter requirements about the drivers' appearance and personality, and do a lot of corporate bookings. Arriving at my apartment, I found I was still pretty tired from my night out, and laid down to take a nap.

About 2:00 in the afternoon, I received a call on my mobile phone, from the guy at the 4WD shop. He said he was working there all day but had gone out to lunch around noon, apologized for the mix-up, and asked if I still wanted to pick up my car. I told him I did, and I'd be down there in about an hour. I hopped on a tram and then a train, and called him when I arrived at the station.

About 15 minutes later I saw a truck pull up with his company's logo on the windshield, then stop just before the intersection in front of the station, and put its hazard lights on. As I walked over to it, I saw the guy from the shop get out and drop down in front of the vehicle to look under it.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"It's locked up," he replied. "I think it might be the diff."

He called a couple of his friends to come out and help him with it. I went to a nearby shop and bought a Mountain Dew and a bag of chips, which I shared with him (the chips, I mean. Not the drink). When his friends arrived, I directed traffic around the stuck vehicle (which was still stopped in the middle of the street) while the "car guys" did their thing.

Eventually, they decided the problem was further back in the driveline (which was good for him, since he'd not touched those parts), and left while he called for a tow truck. After what seemed like ages, a flatbed tow truck arrived and they got the car loaded up on the back of it. We loaded up in the tow truck and headed back to the 4WD shop while the guy from the shop asked the tow truck driver about the winch he'd used to pull the car up onto the truck. The conversation went something like this:

"That's a nice-looking winch you've got back there."

"Yeah? You like it? I don't really know much about them."

"It's a good one. I sell those. Can I ask how much you paid for it?"

"I didn't. I'm a wog¹, mate. I don't pay for anything if I can help it. I do favors for people, and I get rewarded. A guy needs help getting money from someone who owes him money? He asks me to help him get the money back. I get the money for him, and he gives me a winch."

"You said your business was called Bear's Towing. Where'd you get that nickname, 'Bear'?"

"I grew up in Prahran, back when it was all wogs and no hipsters. Back then, Australians didn't like the wogs too much, so you couldn't walk down the street without fists flying. I was working for a mechanic, back when I was a young lad. Well, this guy said something about my mother, so I picked up a 60-gallon oil drum and chucked it through a plate-glass window. When they pulled me off of him, the boss gave me an earful, and he said, 'you're such a calm guy normally, then all of a sudden, you just lose your shit and go after him like a goddamn yogi bear!' And the name's been with me ever since."

We made it back to the shop and got the car unloaded off the tow truck and got all that other stuff squared away. The tow truck driver and I had a nice chat, as well, and gave me his card. He'd asked about one of the rooftop tents at the shop. As it turns out, he's an avid bow hunter and was looking for something he could put on top of his land cruiser for when he goes deer or pig hunting.

It was too dark for me to get pictures of the drawers, so I had to wait until today. Anyway, that's what they look like, and that's the story of how I got them. The weather wasn't too good today, so I didn't take the car out. But I will, and I'll have it all organized now.

(author's note: according to Wikipedia, "wog" is a derogatory term in Australia for people of Southern European or Middle Eastern heritage. The closest American English equivalent is probably "wop")